


To Build A Home

by grand_budapest_queen



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Time, Ireland, Love Confessions, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, farming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:34:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28173258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grand_budapest_queen/pseuds/grand_budapest_queen
Summary: Jim Hutton, a simple farmer leading a simple life, meets Freddie Mercury, a young man aspiring to become a star. When Jim takes him in for what was supposed to be just a few weeks to get him back on his feet, his life changes forever. Maybe love really does come to you in the most unexpected of forms…
Relationships: Jim Hutton/Freddie Mercury
Comments: 12
Kudos: 29





	To Build A Home

Jim first sees him when he arrives at the market on the first day of autumn. The air his crisp, the sun is shining and there´s a sweet, warm scent in the air. 

It´s already getting colder but he´s wearing a thick, knitted jumper over his cotton shirt and therefore the chill in the morning-air doesn´t bother him as he sets down the last sack of potatoes next to the  
small booth he rents at the market in town every Sunday.

The clocktower hasn´t yet struck 8 am and the market isn´t very busy, so the boy sticks out from the few farmers and fishermen that start setting up their booths like a sore thumb. 

People in the small town by the Irish coast know one another, they know him as farmer Jim, the quiet but friendly guy who lives in a house all by himself but for his sheep, cows and chicken, the quiet but friendly guy who grows potatoes and cabbages and sells some of his goods on the market on Sundays. 

Strangers, people who come into the community from the outside, quickly draw attention to them, mostly simply by existing. It´s no different for the boy, well, young man, even though Jim really can´t tell how old he is. 

He looks foreign, as he slowly walks around the market stalls, a certain air of elegance in the way he strolls around, carefully taking his steps, like a dancer almost, the movements of his slim limbs flowing. His clothes look worn, most of all the tattered black fur coat he has slung around his slim form. 

His hair is dark as night and there´s a bronze shimmer to his smooth, youthful skin, his almond-shaped eyes the colour of dark, wet marble as he carefully watches his surroundings from under the overgrown strands of his head of messy, dark curls. 

Jim knows that it´s rude to stare, even though the people of the small town don´t seem to go by that value. They gawk at the stranger, whispering and glaring at him, their gazes speaking of rejection, of fear of the unknown and a lack of understanding. 

After all, none of them has ever seen someone like the boy before, but on the big screen of the only cinema of the town, in motion pictures about the past colonies of the British Empire, the exotic cultures and ways of living of people, thousands of miles away. 

As Jim bussies himself with lining up his cabbages on the wooden table he uses to display his goods, he can´t help but watch the boy out of the corner of his eye. 

Where might he have come from? What has caused him to land here, in their small town in Ireland, in September 1949, all on his own with nothing but a tattered fur coat and black leather shoes that have certainly once been expensive but are now almost falling apart. 

The boy keeps walking, his chin high and sometimes, when he catches the gaze of one of the inhabitants of the town, full of disapproval of him and his mere presence on the market square, he smirks, confident and mocking, his front teeth peeking out from under his upper lip. 

And Jim admires the boy for his disregard of their social norms and outdates views, for his bravery, for the pep in his step. He´s something special, like a rare little bird, free and wild, too quick to be caught by anyone. 

The boy has now reached Jim´s booth and his gaze slowly wanders over the cabbages, potatoes and lush heads of lettuce, the fresh eggs and bundles of carrots, onions and garlic. 

Jim now has the chance to get a closer look at him, the elegantly narrow slope of his nose, the high cheekbones, the expressive arch of his dark brows. His face bears an unconventional beauty that Jim can´t help but recognize, even though he doesn´t know much about these things, shouldn´t even be thinking about them. 

For over two decades, he has cared for and harvested the land that his father had left him. And even though he´s quite a bit older than the boy, having turned 42 this year, his presence makes it painfully obvious to Jim, how different their worlds must be. 

Jim, in his woollen jumper and pin-striped cotton shirt, his worn corduroy trousers and wellington boots, his hands scrubbed clean from the week´s work but still rough and slightly reddened from it. He´s a simple man, leads a simple life, a life on his farm, all by himself. 

But something about the strange young man reminds him of a big city, off crowded streets and shining lights, of gambling and sin, of nights spent chasing the flickering lights of the various kinds of amusements that the nightly hours have to offer. 

The boy´s dark eyes stay put on a small basket of fresh bread rolls that Jim has made just this morning. They are popular with the visitors of the market and Jim has usually sold all of them within an hour of opening his booth. Their delicious smell fills the crisp morning air and as he watches the boy, Jim notices hunger inside of his eyes. 

It is only now that Jim becomes aware of how painfully slim his wrists are underneath the sleeves of the fur coat the boy is wearing, how prominent his cheekbones seem to be, how thin his legs look in the wide flare legged woollen trousers he is wearing. 

“Would you like to buy one, lad?”, Jim asks him and the boy´s head snaps up, as if by looking at the rolls, he has been doing something forbidden, as if Jim had caught him doing something naughty. 

The boy just blinks at him, almost as if he´s stunned that the man behind the table has spoken to him so directly. Maybe he isn´t familiar with the rough dialect of the Irish? 

“15p for one of them but I´ll give you two for 20.”, he adds and to his surprise, watches the boy blush. 

“I must say, they do look delicious.”, the boy says in an accent that seems foreign and familiar at the same time, an odd mixture of vowels, posh but slightly wooden, as if he´s trying a bit too hard. 

“Alas, I´ve already had breakfast this morning and I fear that I shan´t be able to eat any more. I´m stuffed, you see.”, the boy adds with a coquettish smile, quickly hiding the curve of his smirk behind an elegantly placed hand in front of his mouth. 

Something about him reminds Jim of a Victorian lady, or at least the impression he has gotten of them when going to the pictures as a younger man. 

Still, he sees through the lie the boy is telling. He has seen the hunger in his dark eyes, has recognized the gnawing urgency of the starving body, hidden behind those fancy clothes. He knows what hunger looks like, has felt it many a time when he had been a boy, when the harvest had been poor, when his father had drunken too much ale and his mouther had had another child, adding to the ever-growing family of the Huttons, another mouth to feed. 

And like the boy, he had been too proud to admit to his hunger many a time, had tried to protect his dignity while still hoping, praying to receive the kindness of a stranger, someone who would recognize the hunger in his eyes, someone who would be kind and charitable. 

“Ya know, why don´t I give one a dem to you…fer later? Just so ya can have a try. Ya might want ta come back next Sunday an get anoer one, ey?”, Jim quickly says, and grabs one of the rolls to wrap it in a sheet of newspaper that lays right next to the basket for packing things. 

He knows that his logic is a bit flawed and the boy seems to think the same, as he furrows his brows and seems to want to object, but Jim doesn´t let him. He hands him the wrapped up roll and smiles at him. 

“Tere ya go, lad.”, he says and watches the boy close his bony fingers around the newspaper-wrapped roll, as if it were something precious. 

“Thank you, Sir.”, he says and gives him a shy, close-lipped smile that makes him look even younger and much too small for his fur coat and worn out leather shoes. 

How old might he be? Twenty? Twenty-two? He can´t be much older…

“Yar welcome, lad.”, Jim replies with a smile and the boy blushes under the realisation that Jim has long seen through his lie. 

“See ya next Sunday.”, Jim adds and the boy does a little bow with his head, a slightly outdated gesture of farewell, before he disappears out of the Jim´s sight into the slowly growing crowd of people that visit the market on this lovely Sunday morning. 

The next time Jim sees the boy, three weeks after their initial meeting, he looks very different to the first time. 

It´s cloudy on this Sunday and the wind from the sea brings the promise of a storm, chasing away the morning fog that usually lingers over the small town by the seaside. 

Jim spots the boy right away, as he is once again one of the earliest visitors of the market. He looks much different this time and Jim can´t help but be surprised about it. 

He seems to have gotten a whole new set of clothes, looking quite dapper in his light grey suit, winter coat and black fedora hat, which he has artfully placed onto his slicked back head of dark hair.  
His cheeks are rosy and his dark eyes seem to be lined with something like kohl pencil, much like a woman would do. Jim has never seen a man look like this and it seems to be the same for the inhabitants of the town, who gawk at the boy as if he were a strange, exotic animal. 

Still, he seems to relish in those looks of displeasure and poorly-concealed envy, doesn´t seem to mind them at all. There´s a smile tugging at his lips, plush, rosy lips, almost like those of a girl, and as he walks and his gaze meets those of the people on the market, he flutters his lashes, coquettishly shy in his demeanour and knowingly alien. 

Jim can´t help but stare, just like those other people do, but when the boy notices his stall, his smile broadens and he heads straight into the farmer´s direction. 

Jim can almost hear the people around him whispering as the boy picks up his steps, a certain spring to them, almost seeming excited and certainly remembering Jim from their last encounter. People will talk, that is for sure but Jim is not one to mind foolish chatter. 

“Good morning, Sir!”, the boy greets him in his posh, slightly foreign accent and gives him a bright, sweet smile, which he quickly hides behind his hand, obviously trying to conceal his quite protruding front teeth. 

“Mornin´, lad!”, Jim replies and can´t help but notice the dimples in the boy´s cheeks and the way they seem to deepen as he smiles. 

“I´d like seven of your bread rolls please.”, he announces, a command rather than a polite question, but there´s something so boyishly charming about him, that Jim can´t quite bring himself to find it rude. 

“Of course, I´ll put them in a wee basket for ya.”, Jim replies.

“You must be quite hungry this morning.”, he says, as he puts the still warm, heavenly-smelling roles into one of the small baskets he makes out of weed during those long autumn nights by the oven in the kitchen. 

“Starving.”, the boy replies, blushing slightly, as if his hunger is a little embarrassing to him. 

It´s easy for Jim to see behind his pretence, because even though those shiny new clothes might fool the ordinary onlooker, the farmer has seen enough in his 42 years to tell a proper gentleman from a newly-rich boy. 

Still, the fact that the stranger does not shy away from indulging in what he desires, now, that he has the money to buy it, makes Jim empathise. The boy´s enthusiasm seems touching to him. 

“There ya go, lad.”, he hands him the basket and the stranger gives him another one of his sweet, genuine smiles, his front teeth peeking out from under his upper lip, a certain kind of warmth reaching his dark eyes. 

“Keep the change.”, he says, as he hands Jim a ten pound note. His hands are a little more tan than his face and they appear to be almost delicate, long, slender finger with rosy, almond-shaped nails. 

Jim finds those hands intriguing, the delicacy of them compares to his own, the olive tone of the boy´s skin, those sparse, dark hairs growing at the backs of them. He quickly pushed away the thought, scolding himself for it. 

He hasn´t thought something the like for a long time, years even, has thought himself to be safe from such unseemly thoughts and desires. He has to be more vigilant! 

“Might I ask for your name, good Sir?”, the boy asks and his smile turns a little shy, “So I might recommend some of your goods to my friends in town, tell them who to ask for if they´re looking for some of the finest bread rolls.”

He now blushes, still holding the basket of bread rolls as if they had been a generous gift rather than a purchase he has made with his own money. 

“It´s Jim Hutton.”, Jim replies with a smile and the boy puts down the basket onto the table of Jim´s stall to extend his hand, which Jim quickly grabs in a handshake. 

“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Hutton. My name is Freddie Bulsara, although…I´m starting to go by Freddie Mercury these days.”, he explains and his lashes flutter again as his smile turns coquettishly shy.  
“I´m an artist, you know.”, he adds, raising his chin a little, almost as if he´s about to strike a pose. 

Jim can imagine him just so, in an atelier in Paris maybe, paintbrush in hand, an empty canvas in front of him, which he slowly fills with the boldest colours, brush stroke after brush stroke, working away at his own idea of beauty as the soft morning light falls onto his black hair, a look of absolute concentration on his fine features. 

“So do you paint?”, he asks, finding the harshness of his accent the clumsy choice of words so brutish all of a sudden, almost feeling inferior to the boy. 

“Among other things. My expertise rather lies in professional dancing and singing.”, the boy simply says and gives Jim a winning smile, but his eyes seem to beg for praise and recognition. 

“Yes, I´m trying to make it big. My friend Paul, Paul Prenter, he´s helping me meet the right people! We´re going to New York quite soon! New York! Can you believe it?”

The boy sounds so full of wonder, but Jim can´t help but frown as he recognises the name the boy, Freddie Bulsara, has just said. 

Paul Prenter is no unknown man around town. He is a businessman, rootless and calculating, knowing people all around the country, his connections reaching as far as London and Birmingham. Jim keeps his distance from this man but he has heard the stories. Men and women who had come infatuated with him and who had paid dearly as the man saw only his financial gain. People around town feared him but they had no respect for him. 

Jim´s heart sinks when he thinks about the way the boy might be connected to Prenter. He was after all known for his believe in money being able to boy every single thing he desired. 

“Very exciting, Mr…Mercury.”, Jim quickly replied, as he noticed that he had been quiet for a little too long. 

“Oh, I like how it sounds when you say my name, you give it such a…rough edge.”, the boy practically purrs and has the audacity to even wink at Jim in a way that has him feeling a little hot under the collar of the button-down shirt he is wearing under his woollen jumper. 

Tonight, he will pray an extra Ave Maria…or two. 

“Soon people from all around the globe shall say my name in their native accents and it shall be marvellous.”, Freddie adds and this time, he does strike a little pose, just a hand artfully placed at his hip, his head raised almost comically. 

Jim can´t help but smile at the boy´s sweetness and charm, at the way he is so uncaring of the looks people are still shooting them, at the way he sticks out from the market and from the town like a sore thumb. 

“I´m sure you´re going to make it big, Mr. Mercury.”, Jim says and the boy´s eyes light up with the simple praise as if he has been hungering for it for ages. 

“Thank you, Mr. Hutton. We´ll see each other around I think. I won´t be leaving for New York that soon.”, the boy says with a soft little chuckle, his smile so full of excited joy and Jim nods a goodbye, as he watches him slowly walk away along the other stalls of the market. 

On the following two Sundays, Jim doesn´t catch a glimpse of the mysterious young Freddie Mercury when going to the market.

He would be lying if he said that he didn´t look out for him, didn´t crane his neck to keep a close eye even of the farther corners of the market, trying to spot a familiar head of wild, dark hair, a familiar pair of eyes as black as onyxes. 

It is only on the market that Jim allows himself to think about the boy. Even on the way home from the market, during the long, winded drive along the shore in his trusty old Jeep, he had found his thoughts wandering, clinging onto the memories of the encounter with the young artist. 

But he has pushed those thoughts away, time and time again reminding himself that this was not the way to go, even though part of his mind, the dark, twisted part that Jim has battled ever since he has been a boy, had told him otherwise. 

And so he allows himself the thought of worry, of wondering what had happened to the boy, where he is now, how he´s doing. It is something his father had often time scolded him for, caring too much, worrying too much about things that didn´t concern him. After all, he has once been studying to become a priest. Because he wanted to serve the people, wanted to help them, take some weight of their shoulders, listen and give advice. 

But alas, it had all turned out much different. 

It´s mid-September when Jim finally spots Freddie again, but when he sees him, he almost can´t believe his eyes. 

Gone are those fancy clothes, that dashing hat, those leather shoes and gone is the sparkling look of pride and excitement in his eyes as he timidly walks the cobblestones of the market square, his hair a wild and matted, his eyes hauntingly tired and sad, his slim body clothes in ragged, dirty clothes, his fur coat looking shaggy. 

Jim´s heart sinks as he thinks of the boy´s words when they had first met, thinks about him mentioning the name of Paul Prenter and quickly comes to realise that he as well must have felt the businessman´s cruel doings, like many have before him. 

This time, the people of the town are not giving him a single glance, mistaking him for one of the few drunkards of the town, avoiding to even look at him. 

But Jim doesn´t give a crap of what they might think. He needs to talk to the boy, make sure that he is alright, see if he needs anything. It simply is in his very being to try and help. 

“Mr. Mercury!”, he calls over and the boy raises his head, almost seeming a little frightened as he tries to locate the source of the person calling his name. As his eyes spot Jim, the ghost of a smile seems to travel across his lips, before he ducks his head and then quickly walks over, as if he´s a little nervous. 

“Good mornin´, lad! Good to see ya!”, Jim says and can´t help but notice how Freddie´s eyes cling to the freshly baked bread roles and loaves of bread on the display table of Jim´s stall, before his dark, tired eyes find the farmer. 

His face looks sunken, the cheekbones uncomfortably prominent and Jim can´t help but ask himself if Freddie has eaten at all in the past days. He feels anger bubbling up in the pit of his stomach. Prenter has never done anything to offend him personally, nor any member of his family, but of course he´s heard the stories. 

He knows that it might be a little hasty to assume that the boy´s miserable state is entirely the businessman´s fault, but he reckons that the doings of him might play into Freddie´s current problems. Hadn´t Freddie told Jim himself that Prenter had promised to help him with his career and take him to New York? 

“Good morning, Mr. Hutton.”, the boy finally replies and shoots Jim a shy smile. “Lovely autumn day, isn´t it?” 

Freddie looks up at the grey sky, quizzically watching the clouds float by. The wind is quite strong today and pulls at his hair. 

“Bit cold though, don´t you think? Hope it doesn´t rain later, wouldn´t want to get this coat wet. It´s a pain to get dry again, it tends to smell.”, the boy babbles and Jim can very much tell that he´s trying to buy himself some time. 

“Do have a bed to sleep in, lad? A roof over your head for tonight?”, he asks plainly and stops Freddie right in his tracks. 

The boy blinks at him, clutching his dirty hands, fidgeting, his lips slightly parted as he seems to search for the right words. But then he gives up.

“You see…sadly, I am finding myself in the most unfortunate position of…”, he stops, and then sighs softly, as his gaze finds Jim´s, “…homelessness.”

It´s all the evidence that Jim needs and his heart clenches in sympathy. God, the poor soul, all alone on the streets with nowhere to stay. 

“Oh dear, that´s not acceptable. Ya need a place ta stay. Let me think if I know anyone in town to give ya a place to sleep at.”, he says quickly, already trying to come up with anyone who would take Freddie in for some time. 

He has a cousin who lives by the harbour. But then she has eight children and is barely making ends meet herself, especially since her husband is now unable to work due to a horrible accident by the docks. 

There´s a friend of his late mother who owns one of the houses close to the market square but then Jim thinks about how he hasn´t talked to her in years and he actually doesn´t really know if she still lives there or if she had moved away to Belfast to open a bakery, like she had always talked about.

When he looks back down at Freddie, there´s a desperate eagerness in the boy´s dark eyes. 

“You know, Sir…maybe you´d be in need of someone to help you with things. Around the house.”, he suggests, his smile a little tense. 

Jim can´t help but be surprised at the young man´s suggestion. Freddie looks anything but a country bumpkin. During the few times that they had met, he had always struck the Irishman as a city boy. Hadn´t he himself told Jim that he was dreaming of going to New York, one of the biggest cities in the world? 

“Don´t get me wrong lad, but I´m a farmer…”, he tried to explain, but the boy´s smile quickly brightened and he nodded quickly. 

“I know, Mr. Hutton, Sir. Of course I know with all of those wonderful fresh goods you´re selling every week!”, he tried to flatter Jim, his voice as sweet as honey, but the farmer couldn´t help but give him a small sigh and a knowing smile. 

His father and his brothers had called him too soft and too empathetic many a time when he had been younger. And even though he already knew that the boy wouldn´t be that good of a help around the farmhouse, he couldn´t help but feel for him. 

Would it really hurt to take him in, at least for a little while, get him back on his feet, give him a roof over his head before he would move on to his next big adventure sooner or later?

And sometimes, Jim feels so awfully lonely in the house, especially during those long, cold nights when the wind howls and rattles against the shutters, when all of the books in his house were read and there was nothing to do but to watch the flames in the oven and to try and warm his icy feet. 

Maybe the boy could keep him company, could tell him stories about his life and listen to Jim´s own stories in return? Maybe they could listen to the radio together, chat about the news or the music playing? 

A small smile tugs at his lips and a hopeful twinkle starts to appear in the boy´s dark eyes. 

Oh, he is a clever cookie. But Jim didn´t want to make it all too easy for him. 

“Are you good with your hands? Are you a hard worker?”, he asks, even though he already knew the answer to this question. 

It wasn´t that he wanted to tease the boy, knowing how desperate he was for accommodation, how urgently he needed the kindness of a stranger. It was simply the fact that his father´s words started too echo in his head. 

Don´t let people take advantage of you, Seamus! Don´t give away your kindness too freely!

“I can sew, I can mend your clothes, Sir.”, Freddie says quickly and seemed to sink in on himself a little, as he hears Jim chuckling upon hearing those words. 

“Never heard such a sentence from a male before. Rather sounds like your trying to convince me to marry you.”, the Irishman says and to his surprise, watches the boy blush slightly, as if the words are embarrassing him. 

Jim quickly clears his throat, lowering his gaze for a moment. 

“Can you cook?”, he then continues to ask and the expression of eagerness returns to the younger man´s features. 

“Well…I can try and learn.”, the boy pipes up. 

“I see…”, Jim murmurs. 

Oh, damn his big soft heart and his inability to say no. It´s silly really, after all, the boy could be a burglar, someone who wants to rob him, someone who wants him harm. 

Maybe all of those years alone have made him go soft, have made him so lonely, so desperate for any kind of human contact, that he has grown careless.

But then there is something about Freddie that speaks to him, something about his soft, slender hands and his beautiful but uncommon features that makes Jim feel something.  
He should avoid that something, should shut it away and keep it locked in the depths of his mind, just like the priest had told him all of those years ago. 

But there´s another small voice in his head that tells him that this is right. That he should take the leap.

The boy seems to have interpreted his silence as a no and now seems keen to try and play his last card. 

“ I…I´m good with animals…well, some…cats mostly but I´m sure I´ll be good with all of them.”, he stammers and desperately looks up at Jim. 

“And I might not look it, but I´m strong.”, he adds quickly. “I used to be a boxing champion at school.”

Jim can´t help but smile softly at those words. He really can´t tell if the boy is telling the truth, if he is making all of this up or if he really will be of any use when it comes to the hard work Jim has to do every day. 

But at this moment, it doesn´t matter anymore. He just sighs softly and then shrugs his shoulders.  
“Alright lad…”

“Oh, thank you, Sir!”

Freddie gives him a bright, toothy smile, doing an excited little jump and clapping his hands once, childlike in his joy, before he seems to remember to cover his prominent teeth with his hand and clears his throat. 

“Don´t get too excited yet, yeah? This won´t be no seaside holiday, I´ll teach you how to do things and then we´ll split the work equally. No lazing around, no sleeping in!”, Jim preaches and the boy nods eagerly. 

“Yes Mr. Hutton, Sir, of course!”

In the following hours, Freddie proves to be of quite good use during their time on the market place. Despite his ragged appearance, he is quite good at chatting up people and persuading them to boy Jim´s goods, charming and witty in the words he chooses, making radishes and potatoes seem like the most delicious delicacies to have ever existed. 

He has a way of talking to the people that look quite posh, those who previously had never paid Jim´s goods much attention and the boy seems to recognize and appetite in those people, an interest in homegrown, simple goods, a change to the pomp and luxury that they usually surround themselves with. 

It is around noon that Freddie has managed to sell every last one of Jim´s cabbages, radishes, potatoes, carrots, leaks, charlottes and of course, loafs and rolls of bread. 

He helps Jim load up the truck, even though Jim can tell that he´s getting tired and first and foremost, hungry. 

He´s saved to bread rolls for him, which Freddie eats on their long drive along the shore. The boy´s gone quiet by now. Jim has given him his thermos filled with tea, which he takes sips from, his head leaned against the window of the Jeep, glancing out into the Irish countryside. 

“I´ll make you something to eat when we get home.”, Jim says, feeling a little guilty for not being able to offer Freddie more, probably leaving him hungry for the next hour of their drive. “Shepperd pie…that´s what I usually have on Sundays.”

“Sounds lovely, Sir.”, Freddie says with a tired smile. 

“Ya know, lad, you don´t have to call me Sir. Jim is just fine.”, he says and the boy gives him a small nod. 

“Alright…Jim.”, Jim can hear the smile on his lips as he says his name, carefully, as if saying it is precious to him. 

Freddie goes quiet again and when Jim looks over towards him the next time, he notices that the boy has fallen asleep, pale and huddled into the seat, almost angelic looking with his head of wild hair and his soft lips. 

Something protective blooms inside of Jim´s chest, something strong and warm. It´s an urge to keep the boy safe, to care for him. 

It might be insane, as the boy is nothing but a stranger to him. But still, Jim cannot deny those caring and warm feelings. 

Maybe he has suffered long enough, maybe he has been on his own long enough. Maybe he needs this strange young man as much as Freddie needs him.  
Maybe they had been destined to meet from the start.


End file.
